Of Petals, Blood and Ash

Chapter 3: Valara

The ramp descends with a whiff of compressed air, and most striking to impress is the heaviness of the planet.

Veyrith Prime pulses with a quiet vitality, each breath resonating through the tension of its war-torn landscapes. The air dances with whispers from the horizon, where gentle breezes weave between the silver-leaved trees that sway with a grace that belies their surroundings. Life thrums beneath the parched earth, a hidden heartbeat amidst the desolation. Yet, in this conflict-ridden border zone, the planet’s essence manifests as a delicate, anxious gasp, a poignant reminder of its enduring spirit even in the face of adversity.

Then the secondary emotions take over.

Pain.

Grief.

Desperation.

They press down upon me like ghostly hands, pulling down upon my ribs, wrapping around my lungs. The war is not yet over, not yet over for those who linger in its darkness. I draw in a cautious breath, bracing myself before I can be smothered by its heaviness. This is why I have arrived. This is why I was dispatched.

Elyrion steps down behind me in silence. He takes in his surroundings, his eyes scanning over before he ravages buildings, remnants of something that was built. He stands in his usual composed manner, very composed. He covers his tensed muscles well, but I can sense he is nervous.

I glanced over at him to decipher even the faintest suggestion behind this calculated facade. But always, he is inscrutable. His emotions don’t spill over to me like others. I’ve always been in doubt about this being something to be thankful for or not.

A group stands before us by the door to an outpost. Medics have branded emblems upon their attire while others have rifles strapped to their backs. Soldiers, survivors, medics, everyone has injuries upon them, visible or not. Their faces have been mixed with exhaustion and wariness, eyes scanning to gauge.

I adjust the med kit strap over my shoulder and take a step forward. “I’m Valara,” I state firmly in the presence of a rigid atmosphere. “Here to help.”

One of the medics stands before him with exhausted eyes and a scar over her eye socket. “Fine. We can rig whatever equipment is available to us.” Her eyes sweep over Elyrion. “Are you not a medic yourself?”

“No.” His is not cold-hearted, just terse. “I’m only staying to keep her alive.”

The woman confidently calls to follow her without any hesitation.

We weave through the camp, navigating scattered wreckage and frayed flags in tatters. The air is thick with the smell of smoke and blood, but beneath it all lies the earthy scent of original vegetation, rising from cracks that refuse to be smothered by war. Islands of resilient growth appear amid the destruction, with vines coiled around remnants of destroyed walls as if Nature is striving to reclaim something that has been ravaged.

The first-aid tent is packed. Wounded soldiers lie stretched out on cots, injuries in every degree ranging from jagged slashes to burns to broken limbs. Silence envelops the atmosphere, occasionally interrupted by a distant groan.

I don’t think. I roll up my shirt sleeves, take whatever tools are available to hand, and get to work.

Hours blur. I washed over injuries, reset bones, and administered potions to restore. Energy becomes drained, yet I continue. All the touch that I have with each person, every comforting glance that I induce, is worth this work.

But the feelings always push in. Always persistent.

Despair curls around the edges of my head-space not my own, borrowed in my presence. One in this tent has something to lose to start. One is clinging by his fingernails to not giving in. I don’t have to search to decide who. I just lay hands on the burnt shoulder of this soldier, sharing warmth and light in this wound, and pretend not to take notice of the way his grief attaches to me.

Elyrion stays by my shoulder, always visible. He does not loom over me, not really, but his presence is not accidental. He stands in doorways, by those who come in range, his hand always in sword-hall. He does not offer himself to me in the manner that the others have, his feelings not spilling over to me in tides of ache, fear, and grief. I can discern them, just barely, only by trying to search. And now he is an unreadable door.

Good. I must have someone around who does not have to suffer with me.

“Here.” A medic pushes a stack of scrub cloths in front of me, and I take them quickly. My hands are smeared with dried blood, throbbing in my arms, yet I continue to work.

I kneel beside yet another trooper, his leg wrapped in improvised bandages. Infection clings to his wound, his body slippery with stifling sweat. He is breathing in short gasps, his brow slippery with sweat. He can’t live this way much longer.

I press my hand against his leg, eyes closing. Energy moves beneath my skin, a warm glow passing through in an aura around my fingers. Magic is not simply needed to heal; it is needed to have power over yourself and to balance giving while not giving everything.

The warmth spreads to him through me, down through bruised bone and ruptured muscle, fixing whatever I can. The fever subsides., and his breathing regulars. His ache is present, yet it is no longer consuming him.

He exhales unsteadily, his eyelids fluttering as he manages to cast a weary glance my way. “Thank you,” he breathes softly, the words barely escaping his lips.

I gently grasp his hand, my grip warm yet nonrestrictive. “Take a deep breath. You’ll want to save your strength for what’s ahead.”

There isn’t time to linger. Those in greater need demand my attention, and I have little strength left for myself. I continue to attend to each person in turn, as each passing hour blends into the next minute. As the weight of fatigue settles in, my mind becomes a foggy haze, heavy and unclear.

A hand comes down upon my shoulder. Warm. Heavy.

I turn to find Elyrion standing over me, his expression unreadable. “That is enough,” he declares.

I shake my head. “There are still other—”

“You’re done.” he says—not shouting, just firm, final.. “You’re working yourself to exhaustion.”

I want to fight. I want to let him know I can do better. But exhaustion is devouring bones now, and I can see he is where he is meant to be.

I inhale deeply, letting the air fill my lungs and calm my racing thoughts. “Just a little longer,” I remind myself, steeling my resolve.

Elyrion doesn’t express his disapproval verbally, but he doesn’t interfere either. He simply stands by his calm presence serving as an unspoken guardian between me and everything else. The night feels endless, and the wounded keep coming in. Our ammunition is running low. Beneath it all lies a troubling realization gnawing at the edges of my mind: this war is far from over.